Still Life With Shadow
by Kyllikki
Summary: "Let's cut the crap, shall we? Prevarication doesn't suit you, and frankly, I'm too damn busy getting drunk to musterthe energy."


Still Life With Shadow   
by Kyllikki   
  
Author's notes at end.  
  
**********************   
Still Life with Shadow   
**********************  
  
He held his breath to avoid the sour-sweet smell of dried vomit and piss  
surrounding the entrance as he glanced down at the paper he held in his  
hand to double-check the name; a formality, really, for he had memorized  
the directions after rereading them so many times. The name on the paper  
and the name peeling on the canopy matched -- Donavan's -- so he pulled  
open the battered door and stepped inside.  
  
The only light in the room glowed from the neon beer signs on the perimeter  
-- an ostensible attempt to conceal the chipping paint and cracked wood  
paneling -- making distinguishing between the smattering of patrons  
difficult, at best. But running lineups had always been his strong point,  
and he quickly spotted his target: a solitary figure hunched over the last  
stool at the bar under a sign now advertising "Mil Li" rather than Miller  
Lite thanks to a busted bulb.  
  
He strolled to the back of the bar and eased down onto the stool next to  
the hunched man. The man looked for all the world like someone who wanted  
to drink alone -- and like someone who was used to getting what he wanted.   
Up close, even the darkness did little to mask the deep lines and gaunt  
features of the man, who seemed to close in on himself when he sensed the  
new presence next to him.  
  
"Scotch, neat."  
  
He felt the man on the stool next to him tense at the sound of his voice,  
but he made no acknowledgement. Better not to -- it was enough that he was  
here; to do or say anything more would be to tip his hand.  
  
The hunched man still hadn't moved when the bartender returned with his  
drink, but as he lifted his glass to take a sip the hunched man turned to  
look at him.  
  
"Welcome back, Mr. Stone," Jack McCoy said, tipping his glass to the former  
prosecutor.  
  
"Counselor." Ben tilted his glass in acknowledgement and took a drink.   
The Scotch was surprisingly good for such a dive, and Ben had to credit  
McCoy with finding good liquor, at least.  
  
"So who sent you to track me down?" McCoy's breath was damn near toxic and  
his speech was slightly slurred, although his drink-bright eyes remained  
alert. Ben was afraid to guess how much the other man had already  
consumed.  
  
"What makes you think I was sent to track you down?" Ben tried to keep his  
tone light, but he didn't believe for a second his companion would fall for  
it.  
  
He was right. "Let's cut the crap, shall we?" Jack said. "Prevarication  
doesn't suit you, and frankly, I'm too damn busy getting drunk to muster  
the energy."  
  
"All right." Ben nodded in acquiescence. "I stayed in touch with Adam  
while I was gone. He needed a favor."  
  
"And just what is your assignment supposed to be?"  
  
McCoy looked, Ben thought, like a man who was doing his best to appear  
disinterested -- and failing miserably.  
  
"I believe Adam's instructions were 'try to talk some sense into him.'"  
  
"Son of a bitch," Jack muttered, almost under his breath, and took a drink.  
Then he continued, louder, "What I do on my own time is my concern, not  
his. Adam needs to mind his own business. And so do you, now that I think  
about it."  
  
Ben shrugged and downed the rest of his Scotch. Jack's resistance  
surprised him not in the least, but he wasn't about to let one rebuff throw  
him out of the game. McCoy didn't know that, though, so Ben played along.   
"Fair enough. If that's the way you feel about it, I'll leave you to your  
drink." He stood and turned to go, then paused. Time to pull out the  
trump card. "Just one more thing, though, Mr. McCoy -- who do you think  
she'd come after first: you, for drinking your life away; or me, for  
letting you get away with it?"  
  
McCoy's head snapped up and his expression hardened. "Go to hell."  
  
"I've already been to hell, sir, and it wasn't a pleasant experience."  
  
"You've been in Europe," McCoy scoffed.  
  
"On some days, it's hard to tell the difference."  
  
McCoy gave him a long, inscrutable look, then inclined his head toward the  
stool beside him. "Sit down, counselor, and I'll buy you another drink."  
  
Ben sat.  
  
"Bartender! Another Scotch for my friend here. And one more for me." He  
turned to face Ben. "So what brings you back Stateside? You can't tell me  
you flew thousands of miles just as a favor to Adam."  
  
Ben smiled pensively. This visit was supposed to be about salvaging the  
professional life of Jack McCoy, not loosing the personal demons of Ben  
Stone. But if he lied, he had a feeling the other man would be able to  
tell. So he settled for a safe middle ground: avoiding the question.   
"The romantic life of an expatriate is a lot more romantic from the  
outside," he hedged. He paused for a few moments and stared into his  
glass, considering. "It was time to come home," he concluded. More than  
time.  
  
McCoy nodded, and both men fell silent for a few minutes. Ben decided to  
let the silence reign; McCoy would talk when he was ready. And sure  
enough, it was Jack who broke the silence again.  
  
"So you think she'd be on my case, do you?"  
  
Ben stole a glance at his companion, but he was staring down into his  
glass. "I think she'd be disappointed to learn that you've been spending  
your off-hours drowning your sorrows in a bottle, yes."  
  
"And all of a sudden, you're the resident expert on Claire Kincaid?"   
McCoy's voice had increased in both pitch and volume, but his eyes remained  
fixed on his Scotch.  
  
"No. But Mr. McCoy, I knew her well enough to know that she'd be mad as  
hell to see you moping around and wallowing in self-pity."  
  
"'Wallowing'? Is that what you think I've been doing?" Jack's formidable  
eyebrows arched skyward in disbelief.  
  
"It's been over two months," Ben said. "How long are you planning on  
doing" -- he waved his hand to indicate the general atmosphere of their  
surroundings -- "this?"  
  
"As long as it takes," Jack replied grimly.  
  
"As long as it takes for what? To self-destruct? To drink so much for so  
long that pretty soon the pain only stays away if you have a glass in your  
hand? Is that what you really want?"  
  
"I'm not a drunk, if that's what you're suggesting." Jack gave Ben a  
shit-eating grin. "I'm availing myself of the therapeutic values of  
alcohol."  
  
Ben ducked his head to avoid letting Jack catch him smiling. "Nice try,  
counselor. But I thought we were cutting the crap."  
  
Jack bristled. "Fine. Then perhaps you'd like to share with me why, if  
you cared so damn much about her, you didn't come back for her funeral?   
How dare you traipse around Europe for two whole months and then prance in  
here to tell me how I ought to grieve?"  
  
"Oh, you think you have the corner on grief for Claire's death?" Ben  
snapped, unsettled by McCoy's turning of the tables. "You think you were  
the only person who cared about her? She had family, friends, other  
colleagues ... sir, you were not the end-all and be-all of Ms. Kincaid's  
life."  
  
Jack's pique deflated instantly. "As she was so fond of reminding me," he  
said.  
  
Ben cocked his head and half-grinned at Jack's look of consternation;  
somehow, he didn't figure McCoy for someone who conceded too many  
arguments. He turned back to his drink and took a long swallow, then  
continued quietly, "Mr. McCoy, people lose people every day. And your  
righteous martyr in sackcloth and ashes act is wearing thin."  
  
Jack snorted. "Don't patronize me; I'm not buying it. After all, you're  
hardly in a position to talk. Last I heard, you left the DA's office as  
the consumate martyr -- on the altar of morality and duty, no less! And I  
hear you fancied yourself quite becoming in sackcloth." McCoy glared at  
him long enough for his words to sink in before adding, "Or were you just  
running away?"  
  
Ben opened his mouth to protest, but the truth of McCoy's words overcame  
him and forced him silent. While he had packed his bags, he told himself  
he was leaving New York for a change of scene, a sabbatical to get his  
priorities in order before he returned to reassemble what was left of his  
life. Drifting aimlessly through Western Europe, he had told himself this  
was just a means of getting his feet back on the ground. Waking on untold  
mornings with the sticky-sour film of last night's alcohol coating his  
mouth, he told himself this wasn't forever; it was just a vacation. And on  
most days, he even believed himself. But McCoy was right -- he had been  
running away.  
  
Until the day the phone rang.  
  
He had been asleep, and the jangling of the phone reverberated in his  
skull. Grumpy at being roused from his slumber, he planned on giving the  
person on the other end of the line an earful.  
  
One awful sentence later, he became a man on a mission.  
  
His future, once so cloudy, now lay ahead of him with terrible clarity.   
Although he could not outrun his inevitable capitulation to the facts, he  
could at least delay that moment's arrival. And so this time, he didn't  
dwell on the loss, didn't stop to drown himself in misery; instead, he  
hurriedly packed his bags and hit the road. For her.  
  
Still running, yes. But now there was a purpose to it.  
  
And so he ran for nearly two months, until his purpose began to fade and  
the running became force of habit again, rather than force of conviction.   
Until another phone call summoned him home to face the cold light of truth.  
  
Until he was asked save someone more lost than he.  
  
He turned to meet Jack's eyes. "You asked me how I could have stayed in  
Europe after Claire died." Jack nodded, indicating he should continue.  
  
Ben cleared his throat, took a deep breath and went on. "I had been over  
there for almost two years, and I had nothing to show for it except a  
perpetual hangover." He half-smiled at the memory. "I visited some of the  
most beautiful places on earth and all I could think about was my sorry  
state of existence. Then one morning I got that phone call, and  
somehow....." His voice trailed off as he struggled to come up with the  
correct words.  
  
Finally, he shook his head and tried another angle. "I had this crazy idea  
that coming home would mean accepting her death, but while I was away I  
could keep in suspension the part of her life she spent with me. That's  
why I stayed away so long; so I could visit all the places in Europe I  
thought she'd have loved to see. Funny thing was, I ended up seeing them  
through her eyes. It was like ..." Ben paused, considering how best to  
articulate the immense feeling of peace that had settled over him during  
his pilgrimage. After failing several times to come up with a means to do  
the experience justice, he continued, "It was like nothing I can describe.   
Incredible."  
  
"Where did you go?"  
  
"The usual haunts -- London, Paris, Rome, Venice -- and some out-of-the-way  
places I happened upon. Did you know," he smiled, "that there's a sweet  
shop just past the train station in Prague where you can get the most  
amazing animal-shaped confections? There was a zebra in the front window,  
made out of white and dark chocolate, that she would have loved."  
  
Jack laughed. "She wouldn't have thought twice about eating it, you know.   
She'd have admired it for a moment and then dived right in."  
  
Ben nodded wistfully. "With gusto."  
  
He drifted among thoughts of Claire until he realized McCoy's gaze was  
fixed firmly upon him.  
  
"You loved her." It wasn't a question.  
  
Ben sighed again. How to describe his feelings for his former assistant?   
Respect. Admiration for the way in which she carried herself. Concern   
for her well-being. But affection, tenderness, the desire for her   
happiness ... only in the most platonic, chivalrous sense. Nonetheless ...   
"Yes, I suppose I did, a little. She was ... remarkable."  
  
Jack laughed, a little half-chuckle. "I think we all loved her a little.   
Even Adam."  
  
Ben chuckled at that prospect, then fell silent again.  
  
A long look of understanding passed between the two men. Then Jack gulped  
down the rest of his drink and stood on somewhat wobbly legs to leave.   
Before he turned to go, he rested his hand on Ben's shoulder.  
  
"Thank you, Mr. Stone," he said solemnly.  
  
"For what?"  
  
"For bringing her back to me for a few minutes."  
  
Ben opened his mouth to reply, but then simply nodded instead and offered  
his hand to Jack. McCoy grasped it firmly, and the barest hint of a smile  
crinkled the corners of his mouth.  
  
"Take care of yourself, counselor," Jack said.  
  
"You too, Mr. McCoy."  
  
Ben watched as the other man strode toward the entrance, then finished his  
drink in a long sip. After staring down into the empty glass for several  
minutes, he threw some cash down on the bar and walked out into the waiting  
darkness.  
  
  
*****   
end   
*****  
  
Notes:   
This is a slightly different version of "Still Life" than is available on Apocrypha.  
  
Many thanks to jael for super-quick beta and for eradicating my bygone  
teen angst.  
  
This story was conceived over Labor Day weekend, put to paper because of an  
Apocrypha challenge, and given shape by that old fanfic favorite, Pablo  
Neruda, whose Love Sonnet 60 (from _Cien sonetos de amor_) provided the  
mood with these lines:  
  
"Bitter footsteps follow me;   
a hideous grimace mocks my smile; envy spits   
a curse, guffaws, gnashes its teeth where I sing.  
  
And that, Love, is the shadow life has given me:   
an empty suit of clothes that chases me, limping,   
like a scarecrow with a bloody grin."  



End file.
